


Tainted Touch of My Caress

by inaslash



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Dom!Eames, Dom/sub Undertones, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non Consensual, Rimming, Size Kink, Torture, Violence, sub!Arthur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 06:45:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inaslash/pseuds/inaslash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ch. 1: Eames discovers that Mal and Arthur are having an affair that has turned into an extremely physically and sexually abusive interaction. Eames tries to intervene and realizes, of course, that he is in love with Arthur. </p><p>Ch. 2: Arthur comes to Eames in Mombasa and they fuck, but it's wrong somehow. Then Eames figures out why.</p><p>Ch.3: After Inception, Arthur and Eames try again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tainted Touch of My Caress

**Author's Note:**

> Ch. 2 and Ch. 3 are written but need extensive editing prior to being posted. Fortunately, Ch. 1 works as a stand-alone, so I'm sharing it now. Note: Arthur and Eames do not have sex in the first chapter - the sexy stuff will be in Ch. 2 and Ch. 3. The tags are for all three chapters as a whole. Hope to post the next 2 chapters within a week or two.
> 
> First fic, so constructive criticism and encouragement extremely welcome! I also do not have a beta. Could definitely use one, though.
> 
> Fic title and chapter titles are from Reptile, by Nine Inch Nails. That song heavily influenced the mood of this fic, so it might be worth a listen. Beautiful song.

Eames was beginning to suspect that there was something between Mallorie and Arthur. Nothing that anyone else would ever be likely to pick up on, of course, but there was something subtly off about the power dynamic between them. Mal had changed, somehow, about a year ago. And now Arthur was changing, too.

 

Years and years of cataloging subtle gestures and physical mannerisms had ruined Eames in this. He was a consummate observer and couldn't stop himself from noting every detail, even among colleagues. Lovers, even, and friends, though it was a stretch for Eames to call anyone either of those things. And Arthur, of course - stoic, tightly-wound, cruel, darling Arthur - had always been Eames' favorite person to watch.

 

Unsurprisngly, over the years, Eames had fallen in love with Arthur. But somehow Eames remained entirely - perhaps stubbornly - unaware of this fact. But being in love with Arthur, even unconsciously, meant that Eames often sought out jobs with Arthur . And Arthur was most often found with the Cobbs these days, especially since Mal had popped out a couple of sprogs. Sometimes Eames wondered if Arthur shadowed them out of some magnanimous desire to make sure the young parents always made it home in one piece. Or perhaps Arthur was even smarter than he seemed and knew what piece of poison was seeping into Mal's psyche. Maybe Arthur knew about it, and maybe, just maybe, Arthur was trying to fix it.

 

But then Eames would see the way Arthur's eyes lingered a moment too long on Mal's bared wrist, the way Arthur flinched when Mal turned towards him abruptly, or the way Arthur's shoulders would ever so slightly crumple beneath the weight of Mal's subtly cruel comments. And in those moments, Eames knew that Mal held some power over Arthur, somehow. And it didn't matter what Arthur knew or didn't know, because Arthur had been laid low.

 

And so when Eames showed up four days ahead of schedule for a job with the Cobbs, he wasn't entirely surprised to break into the back office of an abandoned storage facility and find Arthur and Mal hooked up to the same PASIV. Mal was, as per usual, quite lovely. Her dress was gracefully draped over her body where it lay reclined in a lawn chair, trailing delicately over smooth calves. Bearing Dom two children had taken nothing from her; if anything it had lent her a lovely fullness near in her chest and hips. If not for the haunting emptiness that he'd begun to see in her eyes about 10 months prior, Eames would have said she was a beautiful woman. And perhaps she still was, but her hollowness bothered him in ways he couldn't quite explain.

 

Arthur, on the other hand, was as beautiful as he had always been, even after all these years. His perfectly fitted suit - Dunhill, if Eames wasn't mistaken - did everything Arthur likely intended it to: cutting a sharp, deadly, professional shape against his shabby surroundings. No one ever underestimated Arthur in a suit. Although Eames suspected no one ever underestimated Arthur naked, either, but sadly he couldn't say for sure. Arthur's hair was slicked back, as always, leaving his face open and bare in sleep in a way that should have been vulnerable but was instead as distant and unassailable as the most seasoned soldier's thousand yard stare. Dreaming usually softened one's features - Mal's lips were softly parted, and Eames knew he often quirked up the corner's of his mouth while forging. But Eames had never seen Arthur soften, not once in all the years they'd known each other.

 

In fact, Eames had never seen Arthur's face show dreamspace emotion at all, even when he knew Arthur was being ridden down hard by militarized projections. And perhaps that was why Eames felt a sudden chill shoot up from the base of his spine when Arthur's eyebrows tightened suddenly, as if Arthur were in pain. A glance at the PASIV revealed another 20 minutes on the timer, more than an hour of dream time before Arthur would wake naturally. Eames couldn't say why he did it, why he thought it would be a reasonable thing to do, but he found himself unspooling a third line from the PASIV, slipping the needle into his arm as he took a seat and reached for the depressor that would shoot Somnacin into his veins. As he felt himself begin to slip under, it occurred to him how very strange it was that Arthur was in that much pain but hadn't shot himself - or let Mal shoot him - out.

 

\---

 

Eames had an embarrassing moment of confusion when he opened his eyes in the dreamspace. He was sitting in the same chair he had just sat down in, although Arthur and Mal were no longer beside him. He was in the same office at the back of the abandoned building, but the light coming through the windows was different - lower in the sky. It was approaching sunset here, where more time had passed for the dreamer. Though Eames was no where near as paranoid about constructing from memory as Cobb was, it still struck him as odd that either Mal or Arthur would risk it.

 

Eames made his way out of the back office and into the main storage area, which appeared much as it had topside. There were aisles and aisles of empty shelves, containers and boxes and dust blocking the light that was streaming in through the windows high on the walls. Eames walked slowly, peering down the aisles as he passed them, listening for any sign of activity from outside. He had no idea how big the dreamspace was and it occurred to him that Arthur and Mal could be miles away, depending on how long they'd been under.

 

A low, desperate sob broke through the silence like torn silk. Eames froze, pupils blowing open in alarm. Eames had never heard a sound like that fall from Arthur's lips, but he knew instantly that that was its source. Eames moved quickly through the aisles, moving towards the sound, a cold fear gripping low in his gut and moving higher. He was getting closer and could hear ragged breaths and half whimpers. Stupidly, Eames found himself thinking please not Arthur, not Arthur, not Arthur.

 

But Eames hoped in vain. When he reached the edge of the clearing in the southeast corner of the building, the rays of setting sunlight illuminated Arthur's body, arms spread and suspended by chains from the ceiling. Arthur was naked, his entire weight sagging in his arms, his head limp and hanging forward. There was blood dripping down his arms from open wounds, a wide gash along the right side of his chest, and what looked like a burn low on his left hip. Eames felt his throat spasm shut when he took in the thick, dark red blood dripping down the insides of Arthur's trembling thighs. His feet just barely touched the ground, though they shook so much they couldn't hold his weight.

 

Eames was frozen in place, just in the shadow at the edge of the last aisle before the open space. Arthur's body was angled towards him, but Arthur's face was downcast, chin to bleeding chest. Eames was blind-sided by nausea at the sight of Arthur so exposed and in so much pain. He had only stood there a moment, but it felt like an eternity. His heart wrenched in his chest in a way that would have surprised Eames had he the time to think about it. But in the next second, before Eames' synapses could fire and direct his body towards Arthur's, Mal's voice sliced through his panic like a hot knife through butter.

 

"Oh, Arthur, mon cher, have I broken you so soon?" Mal was facing Arthur, naked as the day she was born, back turned to Eames. He could not see her face, but he could tell from the cruel, poisonous twist of her words that Mal was sick, beyond sick - beyond saving.  She made a soft clucking noise with her tongue, mocking, before she continued. "Remember, Arthur: pain is in the mind." She stepped in front of him, reaching out for the gaping gash in his ribs with curious, blood-coated fingers. Eames barely staunched his shout when he watched her shove them inside the wound, quick and twisting. Arthur raised his head and screamed,  a sound so ragged and broken that Eames felt his world shift and slip.

 

Eames had already taken a step forward when Arthur's eyes opened and bore straight into his, somehow freezing him in place. Eames could see Arthur's pupils narrow and blow wide again in shock, processing Eames' presence even through the incredible pain he was experiencing. When Eames moved forward again, reaching for Mal, Arthur jerked his chin in a short, sharp movement - first right, then left. And as much as he could with Mal's fingers wrenched between his ribs and blood flowing out of his rectum, Arthur glared at him.

 

Eames froze. Eames may not have been good about doing precisely as Arthur asked, generally - he was Eames, after all - but he had never directly disobeyed him, either. On a job, Arthur was the absolute pinnacle of competence and reason. But this wasn't a job, was it? This was…well. Eames had never drawn such a completely perfect blank in all his life, in dreams or topside. Eames did not know what this was, but Eames knew what he wanted. He wanted Mal's hands off of (out of) Arthur. He wanted to level a Glock at Mal's head and blow every sick piece of it out of her skull and splatter it on the floor. And then he wanted to do it again, topside, where it would stick. He wanted to make sure she never, ever touched Arthur again.

 

But Arthur held his gaze, even as Mal shoved another finger deep in the gash that was now spilling blood at an alarming rate. Eames could do nothing but hold Arthur's gaze and try and send something, anything, across that connection. His heart broke when a desperate sob tore from Arthur's lips, the weight of his head now too heavy to keep aloft. Eames could no longer see Arthur's face, but he could see blood and tears falling from his face, splattering on the concrete beneath him.

 

"Mal, Mal, stop. Please, stop. Please." Arthur was whimpering softly, but Eames couldn't miss a word. Eames had never heard Arthur beg, or even acknowledge anyone else's power over him. But in this, Arthur had been stripped bare.

 

Eames watched Mal's hair cascade down her back as she shook her head at Arthur. "Non, mon cher. You still want this, I can tell. You need me to teach you to find pleasure in pain. To teach you what it means to be a lover." She spoke softly, deceptively gentle over Arthur's keening no, no, no, Mal, no.

 

Without knowing how it had appeared in his hand or how he had gotten so close, Eames found himself slamming a thick hunting knife into the base of Mal's skull. She might not have seen who took her out of dreamspace, but she would figure it out the second she woke topside with Eames hooked up to the PASIV next to her. A small part of Eames wondered if she would kill them both before they had a chance to shoot themselves out, but on some level Eames knew that Mal's sickness was not so simple as all that.

 

In retrospect, the most logical next step would have been to shoot both himself and Arthur out of the dream and wake Arthur from his agony. But Eames let the knife fall with Mal's body and found himself supporting Arthur with his right arm while he reached to lower the winch securing the chains with his left. Arthur was making broken sounds every time Eames shifted his weight, but as soon as Arthur could slip his hands from the chains he clung to Eames neck so fiercely Eames didn't have the heart to put him down.

 

Eames wrapped Arthur in his arms and tried to soothe him, petting his hair and whispering softly. "Arthur, Arthur, darling, let me wake you. I promise I won't hurt you, it won't hurt when you wake up. Let me, please, Arthur." Eames couldn't stop the words from spilling out of his mouth, not that he tried. It might have been fair to say that Eames and Arthur had never been more than competitive colleagues and perhaps grudging friends. But with Arthur naked and broken and sobbing in his arms, Eames couldn't  think past the blinding, unfamiliar need to  protect, to fix, to comfort. He found himself kissing Arthur's temple, clinging to Arthur every bit as tightly as Arthur was clinging to him.

 

Eventually, Arthur quieted. His crying turned to harsh gasps and finally to heavy, steady breathing. He tried to bear his own weight, once, but screamed in agony halfway through the attempt. Eames held him, praying the timer would wind down soon. Eames couldn't bear to shoot Arthur out when Arthur was still shaking so violently in his arms, but going topside was the only thing that would fix this. And though Arthur's blood was pooling on the concrete at his feet, bleeding out at this rate was still going to take a very long time.

 

Arthur tried to speak twice before he finally croaked out audible sound on the third try. Eames felt the words against his neck, Arthur's lips close enough to brush Eames' skin. "Get me out, Eames." Arthur's throat was raspy and raw from screaming. "Please get me out."

 

Eames didn't have any words, so he rested his temple against Arthur's, dreamt up another Glock, raised it to Arthur's head, took a deep breath, and blew a single bullet through them both.

 

\---

 

When Eames' eyes flew open, he was almost scared to look anywhere but straight ahead, up at the ceiling. He knew, instinctively, that Mal was not in the room. He could feel Arthur in the chair next to him, could hear Arthur's clothes rustling as he moved slightly in his chair. For a minute, Eames only listened to the sound of Arthur's breathing, unsure of what to think and distressed by  the strained noises coming from him on each shallow inhalation.

 

Eames sat up, slowly, afraid to make any sudden moves. Normally his interaction with Arthur was playful, antagonizing, even openly hostile, but now Eames found himself at a loss. He looked at Arthur and watched the way Arthur was leaning forward, grinding the heels of his palms into his eye sockets as if trying to scour the images of the dreamspace from his retinas. Eames could only imagine how the look on Mal's ruined face would have appeared to Arthur from where he hung chained and dripping blood. Though Eames would be haunted for years by images of the pain inflicted on Arthur, it was nothing to what Arthur must have felt watching his best friend's wife - his lover, even - inflict agony for her own twisted version of pleasure. Eames found himself wondering how shocked Arthur must have been when Mal turned on him in the dream.

 

A thought occurred to Eames, wrenching in his gut like a knife. He didn't want to know the answer, but he had to ask.

 

"Arthur…"

 

A sigh from Arthur, then a soft clearing of his throat. Then silence.

 

"Arthur, has that...has she...has Mal done that, before?"

 

Arthur stayed silent. His hands fell from his eyes to his knees, rubbing over them gently with open palms. Eames was shocked to see how badly Arthur was shaking. Eames had seen Arthur come awake hundreds of times, of course. Arthur never shook coming out of a dream, no matter how he had died, no matter what pain he had experienced. But there Arthur sat, hands trembling.

 

Arthur finally raised his face, managing to look straight at a point just behind Eames' eyes and yet entirely fail to meet his gaze. He didn't say anything. Eames felt nauseous, but he asked anyway. "Why?"

 

Arthur turned his head away from Eames, looking instead to the windows high on the wall to his left. He didn't speak up immediately, but Eames stayed silent, waiting. Finally, Arthur spoke, low and quiet, without emotion.

 

"A year ago, Mal came to me. Somehow, she knew what I wanted. What I needed, even if I couldn't admit it. She was...lovely."

 

Eames balked, unable to think of what he had just seen as lovely. His own stranger sexual preferences aside, he knew non-consent when he saw it. But Arthur jerked his chin, slightly, somehow aware of Eames reaction.

 

"No, Eames, it didn't start like that. But Mal got worse. Something...something happened. With Cobb, in dreamspace. I don't know." Arthur paused for more than a minute then, looking everywhere in the room but at Eames.

 

"Things changed. It...it got bad. Now it's...now it's like that." Arthur paused, but finally looked Eames in the eye. "She needs it, Eames. I have to give it to her."

 

Eames' arms jerked in response and he nearly shot out of  his chair. His words shot out of him like buckshot. "You don't have to give her anything, Arthur, not like that. Never like that." His hands were balled up tight in fists and they itched to take Mal out all over again.

 

Arthur looked at his feet, sad and strangely quiet. Eames took several deep breaths, started several sentences but abandoned them almost immediately, trying to contain his rage. Arthur had clearly made up his mind. Eames was sick to his stomach at the thought that Arthur would allow something like this to go on; that Arthur, in all his beautiful competence, would consent to something he so clearly did not want.

 

Finally, Eames spoke, voice level and distant. "Does Cobb know?"

 

"Yes."

 

Eames' eyes widened, and the corner of Arthur's lips turned up in one corner, a hollow grimace eerily reminiscent of Mal. "About...all of it?"

 

Arthur sighed, broken. "Yes, Eames. About all of it."

 

Eames didn't know how to process any of what he had seen, and he didn't know how to respond to what he was being told. Eames didn't even want to try to deal with any of it, frankly. He narrowly avoided spitting out what he really thought, that all three of these twisted fucks could just...Eames' blinked, pushed down his rage, and stood. The muscles in his back and shoulders were rigid, nearly vibrating in anger. He turned  sharply, ready to storm out, but in the corner of his peripheral vision he saw Arthur flinch at his sudden movement.

 

Eames would know, years later, that the sound trying to claw it's way out of his own chest in that moment was the sound of his heart breaking. But he didn't know it then. Instead, Eames stifled it, turning slowly towards Arthur, who looked up at him with a strange mixture of fear and defiance.

 

Eames would never know why he did it. In fact, it would never even occur to him to ask himself that. But Eames cupped Arthur's face in his hands, bent at the waist, and kissed him, slow and soft and wet with what tasted suspiciously like tears. After a moment of frozen, terrified shock, Arthur kissed him back, responsive in a way that shook Eames to his core. When Eames' finally pulled away for air, Arthur's hands shot up, clutching at Eames' shirt, holding him close.

 

Eames rested his forehead against Arthur's and whispered against his lips, quietly. "I can't watch you do this." Though Eames desperately wanted to kiss him, carry him, drag him away from that warehouse, he knew Arthur well enough to know that Arthur couldn't be saved. Arthur had to save himself.

 

Eames stood, turned, and walked away. He didn't look back and he didn't stop, not even when he heard Arthur begin to choke back sobs. Eames walked out of the building, off the job, out of the country, and away from Arthur.


End file.
